


Prey

by NeverlandHeart



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Quentin is like...really pissed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 08:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17680169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverlandHeart/pseuds/NeverlandHeart
Summary: Quentin and his friends are used to being the prey. They’re used to being afraid.But they aren’t going to be the prey. Not this time.Or,Quentin really hates the monster.





	Prey

Quentin watches as the monster paces back and forth angrily. He’s mumbling something about the gods again but Quentin doesn’t understand him. It stops for a moment, to pause and smile at Quentin, and he winces, memory of that thing breaking his arm pushing through his mind. It goes back to pacing and Quentin takes in a deep breath.

His eyes scan the large hotel room they’re in. He doesn’t know how the monster robbed someone without him knowing, but it had. If he’s honest, it’s taking a lot not to cry. He’s been afraid more times than he can count, but this. This isn’t just fear. It’s white hot terror. Because he has no idea where his friends are. He has no idea what this thing is truly capable of, doesn’t know what it’s planning. Any wrong move, any bad choice of words, and Quentin isn’t just fucked.

No, no. Quentin is dead.

His eyes scan the room for any tiny thing he can use as a weapon in case there’s a chance, in case he absolutely has to. Maybe a knife from the room service it had ordered. He’d settle for a fucking spork at this point. His eyes move over an object before immediately moving back.

That’s.

That’s Eliot’s watch.

Quentin would recognize it anywhere. He never used it often, didn’t wear it a lot, but Quentin saw it everyday when they went into Fillory in the past. It took Eliot’s watch.

It fully hits him, then. That this thing is Eliot. Maybe he’s been too in shock for it to fully sink in. He watches the monster, more specifically, watches Eliot’s body. Those are his legs, but that’s not how he walks. Those are his hands, but those aren’t his mannerisms. That’s his face. But that isn’t his smile, those eyes don’t reflect Eliot’s emotions, when it talks, it’s Eliot’s voice, but it’s also not, because Eliot never talks like that.

Quentin wants to fold in on himself, give up the battle of not crying and just cry until he’s not him anymore, cry until the only thing he knows is tears.

Because Eliot is dead. Eliot isn’t coming back. The man he loves, who he had a family with, is gone. And all his friends are doomed. He has to cup his hand around his mouth to keep from crying out.

But then.

No.

Quentin moves his gaze back to the thing that’s inhabiting Eliot’s body. That’s not how he walks, but those are Eliot’s legs. Those aren’t his mannerisms, but those are Eliot’s hands. Everything is Eliot’s.

Even himself.

Quentin doesn’t really get that he’s angry until his palms hurt from the way his nails are digging into his palms. He won’t mourn for someone he doesn’t fully know is dead. He won’t mourn for Eliot.

Not again.

There’s icy anger flowing through his veins now, mingling in with the boiling fear. He sees himself standing up and walking over to it, it turning to him with a smile on the face it doesn’t own. He invisions himself punching it with everything he has, making it hurt, fuck the consequences.

He has to stand up and turn away to keep himself from actually doing it. Getting himself killed isn’t going to help get Eliot back. “Quentin, will you play with me?”

His jaw tightens and he squeezes his eyes shut. He wonders why he’s not shaking anymore, why he doesn’t feel the need to cry when minutes ago that was all he wanted to do.

He quickly realizes that’s it’s because he’s no longer afraid, the anger had frozen over the fear. He doesn’t really have a reason to be afraid, not when he really focuses and looks at the situation.

Because he has friends.

Because he has Julia, who is not only a literal goddess, but one of the most stubborn people he’s ever met. He has Margo, who he knows will fight tooth and nail to get Eliot back. He has Kady, one of the toughest people he knows. He has Penny, who’s loyal to fault, even though he’ll never admit it. Even though she fucked up, he has Alice, who’s so incredibly smart. He has Josh. Has Fen. Hell, even has Todd.

And he has Eliot. Yes, there’s a chance he’s gone, that he’s dead. But there’s also a chance he’s not. Quentin is going to go with not.

Maybe his friends aren’t _here_.

But they’re out there.

The monster is searching for them, and he knows, doesn’t need a reason, that they’re searching for him.

So, if he’s fucked, if his friends are fucked.

If they’re doomed.

So is it.

So, Quentin is going to do what he does best. He’s going to adapt.

He’s not going to be the prey, neither are his friends. Not this time.

“I asked you a Question, Quentin. It’s not nice to ignore your friends. That’s okay, I’ll ask again. Will you play with me?” That’s Eliot’s voice. The voice he’s heard over and over, giving him advice, praising him, ghosting words over his body every time they’ve had sex, the voice that whispers to him at night, the voice that tells him to keep going, to fight.

The voice it _took_.

Quentin bites his tongue to make his eyes water, practices trembling his bottom lip. Makes sure his smile is there, but not big enough that it’s obviously fake, shrinks it slightly so it makes him look afraid, but compliant.

It wants to play. Okay.

Quentin turns to face it.

_Game on, asshole._

A shaky exhale, rage disguising itself as fear. “Yes.”


End file.
